


The Healthiest Man Alive

by chasethatbluesky



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Bromance, Companionable Snark, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 20:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7238098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasethatbluesky/pseuds/chasethatbluesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry elects Arthur to be his official physician after having a mandatory medical test imposed upon him by his investors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Healthiest Man Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just a fan of the show!
> 
> No major series spoilers, just a few minor references to certain things from some of the earlier episodes
> 
> This is my very first posted fic. Hope you enjoy!

“Argh! Come on, Doc – _Jeez_!”

Harry Houdini squirmed like a small child as his sometimes-colleague Arthur Conan Doyle examined his exposed torso with firm, searching fingers. The two men were in Houdini's private dressing room inside the Hippodrome Theatre, with the famous Illusionist currently lying stripped-to-the-waist and flat on his back on his personal massage table before his equally famous friend.

Doyle sighed at the man stretched out in front of him. “For goodness sake, Harry, you're worse than an infant. I'm barely touching you.”

Houdini winced. “Yeah, well I guess I just don't take too kindly to being poked and prodded around when there's nothing wrong with me. Especially when the person doin' the _poking_ is not a beautiful woman.”

“Oh really,” replied Doyle, applying a more forced degree of medical pressure to a suspect area of Houdini's stomach, partly to prove a point and partly in annoyance at being unfairly slighted for 'not being a woman', inducing an involuntary jolt of movement and a thin whimper from the smaller man. “Nothing wrong with you, you say?”

Houdini gave off a low growl as he fought to recover himself. “ _Okay_ , so I'm a little tender in some places. I've already performed one “death-defying” matinee this afternoon, don't forget. Honestly, I don't know why you're taking this so seriously.”

“It was _you_ who asked me to perform this examination in the first place!” Doyle retorted.

Houdini shook his head. “Not me, my investors. I still can't believe they insisted on me having a full medical before signing up to back me for another year. It's like they don't trust me or somethin'.”

Doyle shifted on his feet a little as he gradually moved around his 'patient'. Even though it had been a while since he'd performed such a detailed examination on anyone outside of his immediate family, the old routine felt as familiar as his favourite pair of slippers. “I don't believe it's unreasonable for such a request to be made,” he eventually replied, his calm voice deep and clear. “After all, your body _is_ your main instrument-of-trade, if you will. If it's not in full working order, you could be putting yourself, and your _livelihood_ , at risk. As you yourself like to keep reminding us all, “there's only one Harry Houdini”. What would your promoters do if you suddenly couldn't perform anymore?”

Houdini scoffed. “Hey, come on. I take good care of myself. There's not a man in ten miles that's stronger or fitter than I am. I eat well. I don't drink, except on occasion. What else do I have to do to please these people?!”

Though Doyle knew every one of the American's points were valid, he also knew through previous experience that his friend carried a multitude of hidden ailments, picked up through years of hard-graft and sheer bloodymindedness, that would have forced any normal man out to pasture long ago. “Perhaps they just want official confirmation that you are in fact _human_ after all." 

A wicked glint flashed in Houdini's eyes and he raised his hands, placing them behind his head. “And is that gonna be your final diagnosis, _Doctor_ Doyle, or do I still need to provide you with _further_ evidence? We both know how your _juices_ start flowing when there is even the _slightest_ chance of clouding a perfectly rational argument with an entirely _irrational_ paranormal explanation.”

Doyle's standard pithy facial response to such an obtuse notion caused his bushy black moustache to twitch. “My professional opinion will be available, along with my final report, in due course.”

Houdini's smile dimmed. “Wait, so you're not gonna sign me off now?” he queried hesitantly, his gaze flitting momentarily over Doyle's shoulder to the very forms requiring official signature that were lying out ready on his dresser.

Following Houdini's gaze, a tiny sneer ghosted across Doyle's face as he turned back. “Is that, perhaps, why you insisted on having your financiers engage _me_ to examine you, as opposed to your regular physician? Were you counting on the assumption that I would willingly grant you a swift and clean bill of health with a simple signature, foregoing the usual professional courtesy of documenting any _actual_ findings, simply because we're friends?”

“No, I just... I thought it'd be quicker to wrap the matter up now, is all,” Houdini replied with seeming earnestness. “Save you doing unnecessary paperwork at home. After all, how're you gonna figure out a way to bring back ol' Shylock Holmes for your many _dozens_ of fans if you're stuck filling out a superfluous report about the healthiest man alive?”

Not dignifying the obvious provocation with a verbal response, for he knew the sound of deflecting conversation when he heard it, Doyle merely emitted a small _hum_ and continued to examine Houdini, trailing his fingers up the Illusionist's ribs one by one, feeling more than one slightly worrying anomaly under the man's taught and unabashedly tanned skin, though his years of medical experience precluded him from showing any hint of his concern in his features. When he looked up at Houdini, he saw that his friend's own smooth, chiselled face was similarly stoic, void of any tell-tale expressions of pain, giving him no opportunity under which he could bring up said anomalies for discussion.

“Speaking of _Holmes_ ,” Houdini eventually went on, keeping his hands behind his head and his eyes fixed on the ceiling as Doyle continued his ministrations, “did you know that our dear, sweet Adelaide has not _one_ of your books in her collection. I was a little surprised, to say the least...”

Finishing his examination of Houdini's stomach and chest, Doyle coaxed his friend up into a seated position, waiting as Houdini swung himself round and dangled his legs off the side of the temporary massage table. Doyle then rounded the table and affixed the ends of his stethoscope into his ears, placing a hand on Houdini's shoulder to steady the man. “It's not a legal requirement for someone to own a copy of _Sherlock Holmes_ ,” he said calmly. “I'm sure Constable Stratton has her own unique literary preferences, which she is very much entitled to pursue and nurture without the fear of any undue prejudice exerted by either of us.”

Houdini gave a small, theatrical shiver as Doyle placed the end of the stethoscope in the middle of his back. “ _Ooo_ , that's cold, Doc. Trust you Brits to practice the _chilly_ approach. And anyway, I thought it actually _was_ the law for the policemen – and _woman_ – of this country to own a copy of _Holmes_ , even if it's simply so that they can _know thine enemy_. How else could they have collectively built up such a unanimous air of _animosity_ towards you?”

To the Illusionist’s chagrin, Doyle again failed to give any firm response to the risible argument, with the Doctor seemingly ignoring Houdini's ramblings in favour of concentrating better on his current task.

“I need you to take in a deep breath. Good. And another...”

Realising that his efforts were falling flat, Houdini fell uncharacteristically silent, offering in lieu of further testing comments his simple compliance with Doyle's intermittent verbal instructions, feeling the chilled end of the Doctor's stethoscope touch and leave his skin several times. After a short while, he even fought to stifle a sudden yawn, something he would normally have released without a second thought, guessing that Doyle would likely take the gesture as a sign of childish impertinence rather than chalk it up as an (albeit more telling) expression of his genuine fatigue. No, Houdini thought, it wouldn't do to annoy the man more than was absolutely necessary right now, especially when his friend held the key to the long-term future of his show within the potentially _lengthy_ confines of his forthcoming report. Besides, he couldn't deny the celebrated author _was_ doing him a favour, giving up a Sunday afternoon with his adorable kids to come and examine him. The least he could do in return was show some gratitude, or, at the _very_ least, maintain an almost _subliminal_ note of mild appreciation.

Relishing the chance to examine his patient in relative peace, Doyle began to gently prod around Houdini's lower back with his fingers, getting a sense of the condition of the man's kidneys and spine. He could still see a faint outline of redness just above the waistband of his friend's pale-blue suit trousers at the very base of his spine, the site where the worst of a curious case of boils had briefly taken hold earlier in the year – a stark reminder for Doyle of yet another occasion when the Illusionist had endured a sudden and near-fatal brush with death, one that had still yet to be given a definitive _rational_ explanation.

After pausing briefly to add a few lines to his pocket notebook, Doyle rounded the table again and came to a halt in front of Houdini, placing the end of his stethoscope amid the small, springy patch of dark hair that bloomed in the centre of the man's chest, listening carefully to his friend's undeniably robust heart before dropping the end of the scope and taking the man's head gently into his hands, running his fingers round the base of his skull and down his jaw. Houdini's thick curls were still a little damp from his earlier 'water tank' escape, feeling cool to Doyle's fingers.

“Perhaps instead of concentrating on the state of Constable Stratton's library,” Doyle eventually voiced, disturbing the mutual silence that had built up between them as he reached over for a small medical lantern that was standing-by ready on Houdini's dresser, “you should ask yourself why she has yet to attend one of your performances."

Houdini's face visibly lit up at the resumption of gentle hostilities. “Hey, I've offered _both_ of you front-row tickets on multiple occasions. I figured it was just some kind of British _politeness_ thing that had made you both _resoundingly_ ignore my gestures of goodwill.”

Holding the lantern directly in front of Houdini's eyes, quietly noting the faint dark circles that lined them, Doyle studied the man's pupils closely as they reacted to the presence of the small open flame, watching as the light, watery blue irises expanded before contracting sharply – a good response. “I saw one of your early shows when you first came to England, remember?” he replied. “Besides, I think you underestimate the _potency_ of your presence on a normal day. For those in your general vicinity, every moment is _quite_ the performance.”

Houdini radiated a bright smile. “What can I say. I project a youthful vitality and incite awe-inspiring wonder wherever I go, things you Brits definitely lack in my opinion, as you while-away your dull lives in this grey, rain-soaked country you call home.”

Extinguishing and replacing the lantern back on the dresser, Doyle then removed a tongue depressor from his jacket pocket and took a look inside Houdini's mouth, getting the 'great' magician to say “ahh” several times more than was probably necessary for the mere pleasure of having the American otherwise quiet once again. He then moved on to examine each of Houdini's muscular arms, checking the ligaments and joints in addition to surreptitiously looking for any tell-tale puncture wounds that could indicate a narcotics habit – something he'd held a growing fear of since his discovery that Houdini secretly utilised an opium pipe on occasion to regulate his near-constant pain. Luckily, though, the only marks Doyle did find were the those left by the shackles and ropes that Houdini had escaped from during his performance barely an hour ago, the fading, raised welts of which encircled his forearms and wrists in fine, criss-cross patterns. If Doyle were honest, he was surprised he hadn't found more evidence of scarring on Houdini's person, given the almost daily abuses the man endured in the name of show-business and his admittedly 'checkered' upbringing.

“Maybe I _should_ invite Adelaide again, _alone_ this time – offer her a private tour of this dressing room to sweeten the deal,” Houdini mused, raising a brow in apparent thought of the proposition, feigning both a sense of innocence and impropriety in his tone as he knew Doyle loathed him speaking in such base terms, especially when referring to their shared colleague. “Maybe it's just been the thought of sitting next to _you_ for two hours that has put her off coming so far...”

“Your generosity knows no bounds,” Doyle parried dryly. “It's truly a wonder how _any_ woman is able to refuse your _profound_ charms.”

Houdini piqued a little at the thinly-masked insult to his “legendary” prowess with the fairer sex, subconsciously puffing out his chest a little. “Hey, don't count me out yet, Doc. I'm confident that one day our Addie will drop her defences and succumb to the inevitable. It's just a matter of time.”

“ _Hmm_.”

Making a few more swift notes, Doyle then took a step back, swallowing hard as he knew his next words were only likely to incite yet more indelicacy from his American counterpart. “Okay, if you could now please remove your trousers...”

A sly smirk practically _oozed_ across Houdini's face. “What, you're not even gonna buy me dinner first?”

“As if _that's_ ever stopped you,” Doyle murmured under his breath.

Sliding off the table onto his brightly-socked feet, Houdini made quick work of the request, adding as he draped the now removed and half-folded trousers carefully over the back of a nearby chair, “You know, Arthur, I think you're the first man that I've ever undressed in front of who's not gone on to put me in handcuffs or a straightjacket – aside from my brothers and Pa, of course."

Doyle's stoic response was simple and dry. “I feel honoured.”

“Although,” Houdini added, “there was that time, when I was seven or eight-years-old, when my brother Nathan saw fit to chain me to the railings outside our home and offer passers-by the chance to throw rotten fruit at me for a nickel a time. By the time I'd gotten myself free, he'd collected almost seven dollars.” He sighed and shook his head wistfully. “Good times...”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “Dickens would have _loved_ you,” he retorted.

With his modesty now concealed only by a pair of the small, white cotton trunks he routinely wore for his 'aquatic' performances, Houdini grinned like a cat as he returned to his former seated position, mounting the edge of the massage table with a small yet pronounced spring in his step.

Lowering himself to a crouched position, Doyle set about observing Houdini's lower limbs, testing each leg's range of mobility and general condition. While checking his friend's knees, he noticed a thin jagged scar running across the middle of the man's right thigh, just below the hem of his shorts.

“Got that after Florrie smashed the tank,” Houdini explained without his customary smile, his voice for once also missing its normal gusto. “Only time anyone's ever had to bail me out like that." 

“You were fortunate that she acted so swiftly,” Doyle offered, remembering the particular incident well, not least because afterwards it had afforded him a rare chance to rouse the American via a series of 'compassionate' slaps to the face.

“Yeah, she's a good girl,” Houdini added, nodding. “Does a good line in back-rubs too, if you ever find yourself in need...”

“I'm sure she does...” Doyle trailed, trying hard to avoid picturing such an image as he slowly rose back to his full height, reaching into his pocket once again for his notebook as he did so in order to record the last of his observations. It was then, out of the corner of his eye, that he noticed a new, faint tremor in Houdini's left hand.

“Care to explain what that is?” he posed gently, pointing to the extremity in question with his pencil, which Houdini currently had resting on his thigh.

Houdini frowned and looked down to his hand in confusion, clearly not having observed the movement consciously himself. After seeing the same thing as Doyle, he balled his fist tightly and took a moment to school his features before raising his head, offering a casual shrug of his shoulders and a dismissive wave of his other hand in an attempt to misdirect Doyle's attention away from the occurrence. “ _Eh_ , it's nothing. Just an echo of residual adrenaline. That's what happens when you risk your life four days a week, and twice on Sundays."

Doyle, however, was not convinced. Using the same process of mental deduction as his famed creation, he swiftly bypassed several possible explanations, including residual nerve-degradation from prolonged opiate intoxication, tracing the likely cause of the tremor to a particular region of tightened muscles and nerves in Houdini's back, an area he'd already made a point of referencing in his notes. “Adrenaline doesn't cause sporadic localised tremors, as you well know,” he replied. “It's more likely that you have a knot of muscle in your back pressing on a nerve.”

“Really? _Huh_...” Houdini mused. “Well, in that case you'd better get Florrie straight in here. It seems her services are needed more than ever!” He clapped his hands together loudly before rubbing them in glee, clearly wanting Doyle to imagine the most _lurid_ version of possible events that were about to occur. 

This time it was Doyle who raised a brow. “Though I'm sure the young lady is very _skilled_ , I highly doubt she'll be able to fully alleviate the cause of the symptoms before your next performance this evening. If it remains untreated, the entire limb could quite easily go into spasms, leaving you unable to control your fingers, or perhaps even lift your arm." 

“That... doesn't sound ideal,” Houdini eventually admitted, his expression hardening as he began to nurse a fleeting twinge of low-level panic. “What would you suggest, then? Warm bath? Cold compress? An inordinate amount of incredibly hard drugs?”

“I was thinking along the lines of a simple muscle-release treatment,” Doyle replied. “One which, as it happens, I can administer upon you right now.”

“Well then, what are we waiting for!” Houdini beamed, throwing out his hands before him like many Americans were often want to do, his former confidence returning. “Where d'you want me?”

Closing his notebook and stowing it away in his pocket, Doyle indicated the massage table Houdini was sat upon. “Turn and lie upon your front, please.”

Houdini did as he was instructed, lowering himself chest-down onto the cream-coloured padded table. Doyle placed a rolled up towel at the head-end of the table, which Houdini soon claimed and repositioned near his face. 

Knowing that his treatment could take some minutes, Doyle found a blanket and draped it across his friend's newly-exposed lower half, in an effort to curtail the occurrence of further stiffness in the man's joints and ligaments, as he was aware the Illusionist had both further rehearsals to endure and a second performance to give later in the evening. 

Houdini observed the act over his shoulder. “This better not simply be an underhanded attempt to get me to 'take it easy', Doctor Doyle,” he said, adding through an involuntary yawn, “Life's far too short to start taking afternoon naps.”

Observing the unintentionally oxymoronic statement, Doyle merely rolled his eyes. “Is that so?”

Houdini turned his head back round so that he was facing ahead, drawing his right arm up so that he could rest his chin on his forearm. “Absolutely. Did you know that humans only really need about four hours of sleep a night. Think of what humanity could achieve if we all utilised those extra hours..." 

Questioning the wisdom of such a notion with a small, dismissive shake of his head, Doyle finished arranging the blanket around Houdini's feet. “Okay, I just want you to relax now. Focus on taking steady breaths. _No_ talking, if you think you can manage it.”

Manoeuvring round the table into position, marvelling at how quickly Houdini actually did comply with his 'no speaking' request, Doyle then set to work, gently manipulating his friend's left arm back and forth whilst kneading the connecting shoulder with an open palm, feeling the faint tremor radiating almost all the way through the limb, working the arm and shoulder round to locate the area of tension before guiding the arm up to mirror the position of the other limb, pausing briefly as Houdini got comfortable by nestling his face into his forearms. Doyle then began searching the region he'd identified with two fingers, waiting for Houdini to give a sign he'd found his prize.

“ _Oww_ , yeah, okay, right there...”

Immediately zeroing in on the pinch-point of knotted muscle in question, replacing his two fingers with a single, rigid thumb, Doyle began applying small waves of shifting pressure in a slow rhythm, just as he'd been taught to do in a special medical seminar he'd attended in Milan several years before, allowing his thumb to slowly massage and penetrate the hardened mass he'd found, feeling the surrounding tissue gradually begin to relax under the weight he was exerting. “When you're ready, I want you to take a deep breath in then exhale slowly.”

Doing as he was told without a fuss, Houdini took in then expelled a large breath, allowing Doyle to increase his focused pressure even more. Doyle then kept his thumb firmly in position, not moving or alleviating the pressure at all. 

A small, muffed “ _Hyrumpff_...” was the only audible sound that Houdini made in response, his body remaining still but for his increasingly short, shallow breaths, which were the only indication he was compensating at all for the increased pain he had to be experiencing. 

Glancing up at his friend now and then as he remained still, Doyle gradually witnessed the slight but tell-tale lulling of Houdini's head to one side, which indicated to him that the Illusionist was somehow _finally_ allowing his fatigued body to relax, despite the pain.

Staying perfectly poised in his new position despite the slightly awkward angle, knowing that the longer he could sustain such targeted pressure the better the result would be for Houdini, Doyle began to absently run through his newly-acquired notes in his head, giving himself a chance to decide what he'd put in and, perhaps more importantly, what he'd leave _out_ of his final submitted report. Save for a small pocket of tenderness in his friend's stomach, there was no real cause for concern that he could find that Houdini had not already been carrying for several years, other than perhaps a few _psychological_ issues that would be better diagnosed and treated by a clinical practitioner in the field. For all his brashness, Houdini wasn't wrong when he lauded himself as one of the fittest men Doyle had ever examined – a rare feat when one considered the Doctor's ex-patient list included many career seamen and seasoned soldiers. Though he would never tell him to his face, in truth Doyle envied his friend's physical prowess, the way he could make the most impossible feats look like child's play. He just hoped that Houdini would never again feel the sharp side of his line of work, for it was ever the case that one small mistake could easily cost him his _life_ – a price that not even the American's most hardened of detractors could ever truly desire to come to pass.

Taking out his ever-present pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket after what felt a suitably lengthy pause, discerning from its ornately carved face that he'd been administering his somewhat _avant-garde_ treatment for almost ten minutes, Doyle reasoned that he'd probably inflicted enough pain on the man underneath his lone thumb, raising the aching digit slowly up from the small depression it had made in Houdini's back. To his surprise, the Illusionist did not move or make any comment upon the cessation of activity, his body merely continuing to rise and fall gently as he breathed slow, steady breaths.

Satisfied that his work was done, Doyle padded over to the dresser and began packing his instruments quietly back into his leather medical bag, making sure to remember to file away the forms Houdini had brought for him to sign so that he could attend to them _properly_ later that evening. He then grabbed his overcoat from the back of Houdini's vanity chair and draped it over his free arm, pausing for a moment before leaving in order to make a final assessment of his friend, who was still lying face down on the table in the middle of the room, his still features almost entirely hidden behind his forearms and his trademark unruly mop of curls. Though such inactivity from the normally _rambunctious_ American would usually cause Doyle more than a mere moment's concern, in this instance the sound of soft snoring coming from the prone form was enough to allay his fears.

“Rest well, friend,” he uttered softly, before gently opening the dressing room door and slipping out without another word.

Outside the dressing room, several theatre workers went about their normal duties in the shadows of the stage, untroubled by the arrival of Doyle in their midst. As he finished gently closing Houdini's door, the author was suddenly approached by a pretty blonde woman in a rather revealing theatrical outfit. Despite the lack of light, he recognised her instantly to be none other than Florrie, Harry's current _muse_ , as he recalled he'd not been introduced to anyone else in the vicinity that afternoon whom sported such a broad and _colourful_ assortment of feathers in their hair.

“Is Harry ready to rejoin us now on stage?” Florrie asked, her beauty somewhat at odds with her decidedly _earthy_ accent.

“Mr Houdini is resting now, madame,” Doyle advised with a kind smile. “I'd suggest giving him thirty minutes before you wake him.”

The petite woman smiled awkwardly, clearly not used to being addressed in such a polite manner. “Of course, Doctor Doyle. Whatever you suggest.”

Replacing his trusty bowler hat upon his head, Doyle offered the woman a polite tap of its rounded brim before taking his leave of the corridor, heading back out through the bowels of the theatre with the renewed aim of claiming as much of the afternoon sunlight as may be left, wondering as he went if he should tell Constable Stratton about the 'miraculous' way he'd managed to quell their renowned American friend, using nothing more than his lowly thumb.

 

_~FIN~_

 


End file.
